Daredevil 2099 mini: Eyes Wide Open
by Bowie Sessions
Summary: The mysterious figure known as Daredevil initiates his hardfought war against the corporations, allied with the similarly enigmatic group ReActiv8. Who is Daredevil? Who are his enemies? And is ReActiv8 really his friend?5 chapters 2 complete
1. Chapter 1

On the Night of Long Knives, I woke up. They killed the heroes, the ones who tried to reintroduce us to magic, hope, independence – to Justice. I saw it on the news and I KNEW. Someone had show them that it takes more than gunfire to kill an idea. I've allowed my hate to grow in me and bloom. I have no life, no home, no ties and no love. Its time to show them all that a man with nothing – is a Man Without Fear.

I am

DAREDEVIL.

DAREDAREVIL 2099 - EYES WIDE OPEN, part 1: Lowered Expectations

written by Bowie Sessions by

"The leaders of the revolution have children just beginning to talk, who are not learning to call their fathers by name; wives, from whom they have to be separated as part of the general sacrifice of their lives to bring the revolution to its fulfillment; the circle of their friends is limited strictly to the number of fellow revolutionists. There is no life outside of the revolution."

– Che Gueverra

uptown, Stark Fujikawa-subsidiary HQ, "Geru Automotives", popular Maglev producers

The night is unerringly dark and silent. Lights dimmed as the business of the day has surrendered to the weakness of sleep. Maglev cars seem to have come to a stop, with infrequent rushes of wind issued from railways and the skyscape to assure us of their presence, high beams splashing through the dimness of a neon-highlighted city at night. This dreary evening breaks in a crash of glass hundreds of stories above the building's solid foundation.

"NOOOOOO!" screams the silhouette made against the background of the office tower's lit lights. This silhouette falls to Earth, and just as quickly, sharply cries in pain when his leg stops his descent. His leg dislocating issues a sickening noise. The shoulder dislocates with ease. Legs take a lot of work. Above, however, is a very competent worker.

Around his ankle is a glowing red cable that slowly pulls him skyward as an angler might reel in their catch. Returned to the safe confines of his office building, his body drags over the broken glass, yanking him in foot by foot. He suddenly turns and struggles, as if to get free of the bonds, crying from the pain of his injured leg. He seems terrified of his savior.

The victim's eyes are unable to glance away from him, as the light of the office reveals him, his Guardian Angel, in a soft halo of luminescence above his head from the victim's vantage. The light silhouettes the figure, making the complete black of his form-fitting suit seem an abyss in a world of light, horns prominently jutting from his brow, with only his glowing red eyes to cast free of the shadows.

A similar crimson light radiates from the strange baton in his hand, displaying the cable that recently ensnared the victim's ankle, now reeling into its peak. "I'll do it! I'll give you the shutdown codes!" There is silence. His Angel is not moving and not flinching. His muscles do nothing to change at the insistence of the victim's desperation.

"...say something! Say yes! Something! Please! I'll do it!" No voice responds. This dark figure kneels down before him, and the exec sits up, looking down over his own bleeding body to the devil at his base.

"What are you doing? What're you ..." he does not get to finish his sentence before the dark figure grips the man's other ankle from the undeformed leg and stands again, forcing his foot into the executive's crotch.

"I know you mean it. But I need you to stay right here, so I can find you. In case you're lying to me, Charlie," the dark figure's voice is cold, deep and detached.

Charlie struggles for understanding, "...but I'm -- I'm not going anywhere! You -- my leg, you know I'm not--"

"I know you're not, Charlie. Not if it's both legs," the voice casually remarks in torment, and then without hesitation, he violently dislocates Charlie's only healthy leg. Well, it _was_ his healthy leg. "Make sure you don't ... walk off." The masked figure walks out of the room as soon as he gets Charlie's codes written down on scratch. It is a quick walk through the building, past long since unconscious security guards, and finally he finds a large terminal. Typing into it, he refers to the note of paper, and writes in the set of codes. There is no loud bang or dramatic noise. A simple 'Bing!' of affirmation, and he walks back through that hall. Once more past the downed security guards lining the floor, and into Charles Takiwara's office, as if he owns it.

"Charlie," he begins, mask unable to show anything of his facial inflection, presenting the strangest sense of mystery to what he may be thinking. Charlie immediately begins to yank himself back, crawling in reverse over broken glass, dislocated legs awkwardly trailing behind him and his fear palpable.

"Charlie, I need you to know, you shouldn't be afraid of what your boss will do when they find out about this. You know what they'll do. Let it go. Your life is much too short to live its last minutes concerned."

A staff forms from the red baton gripped in the dark figure's hand, and he moves forward in an effortless somersault, landing with his staff shoved against Charlie's chest to pin him down. This masked devil kneels down, replacing his energy-staff with his knee. The staff first returns to baton shape, before its edge crystallizes into a stake-shaped blade. Leaning forward, he grips Charlie's hair, and place the blade over the upper left of the victim's forehead. "Be a man. A true man is without fear," he seems to offer in explanation, before making His mark.

"Who -- who are you?" The man asks; sweat beading down from his scalp, feeling the foreboding pressure of the blade.

"Oh, I think you'll figure it out," the two letters 'DD' scrawled suddenly and mercilessly across the entirety of his face are the imprint left on the mutilated executive.

That broken window finds another silhouette against the neon landscape lunge through it. This one, however, is much quieter in its cries, as the wind rushes around his body which languidly stretches through the sky as if a swimmer in its dive. Then, as quickly, a bolt of red releases from the baton gripped tight in his black fist, cable trailing in the air to catch a passing rail line.

apartment high-rise, Tormen Towers, eighty-fourth floor

"You jolt it, Daredevil?" a tall, dark-skinned, shock-white haired woman asks, bitingly, as if expecting bad news. Her eyes, tight, crisp blue and bright as her hair, focus on the vigilante's face formed in black. The red 'DD' subduely imprinted on his chest is overcome by the deep crimson of his glowing eyes, transfixed on her. She struggles not to shrink under his gaze. One can almost make out from the mask a crease of his smile at her reaction.

"I did," he responds, calm and dismissive as he perches on her balcony. One hand grips the rail, the other hand grips the baton, which reels its crackling cable into its hilt. The baton then dissipates, leaving both hands to grip the rail. He watches her as if to gauge her, expression alien from the dark of the mask.

She still looks crossly at him, shooting a quick look over her shoulder, then immediately back, like Daredevil might leave if she blinks. "You need to understand the importance of this. They were going to eliminate thousands of jobs, and the technology could've been used to fabricate weapons that--"

He does not allow her to finish her rant, her cries of exultant support to 'The Cause' that Re-Activ-8 so constantly rants and entrusts into one of its champions. Him. "I never doubted the mission, Arc. I live for it. We can't let them make robot taxis. First - it'll be taxi fares. Then its the world."

"THIS IS NOT A JOKE--"

"I'm not laughing," he again cuts in, voice curt, vicious, like the slices he left across the executive's paling face.

"There must be humanity in all things. The ranks of the poor are swelling every day only so the rich can grow richer. This party line is forced down my throat, and I've eaten it, Arc. Don't treat me like an ignorant child. I bloody my fists for you, but it doesn't make me an ignorant barbarian. I know why I was there. Don't belabor the obvious."

Unsurprisingly, she is quiet. They contend each other with their stares, his eyes unseen behind the soft flicker of the glowing light. She finds herself losing the stoicism she treasures and breaks the eye contact. "There's something else for you. When you're ready, you know, rested up, we need--"

"I'm ready."

"Well... Okay, then," she slowly manages, taking that in stride with deep frustration burning her voice, "We've received word there's been a corporate takeover of a medical research facility, possibly by Stark-Fuji. They're trying to get its President to surrender... under duress."

He does not say a word. His silence is his response.

"You have to understand, I know you think this is just a pointless tasking, but every time a business is claimed, every single time Indy is made Glom, we lose identity, and we lose ground. We have to make a stand. With you, we can finally make a stand, Daredevil. DD." Finally, she begins to plead, "H--"

From the silence, his baton erupts into his hand. His stare is given life, as if Hell wars beneath the embers in those eyes. "No names," he hisses, suddenly, and eyes drill through her skull in a way she can feel from behind that black mask. "I do not 'have' to understand. And I would question seriously if you have any idea what I think. These are favors that I do for you. I do them if I believe in them, and only then. You begged me, Arc. You begged me. And in this 'pointless tasking', I believe."

There is only a beat, a heartbeat, in-between those scathing words and his next, but the pause stretches a mile to her ears. "Where?"

Dockside New York; the distribution centers of Daneshi Fishing, Inc.

There is the loud crack of metal against flesh. The image is very clear - a woman's head whipping back as steel knuckles around a fist buckle against her demure face. The fist of a man who looks as if he may have spent his entire life bathing in steroids and cuddles with free weights when he sleeps. She cries, but behind tears and black flesh, she has the eyes of a demon, alive and fiery, face set and firm, chin tight and teeth that grit tight. She resists, and returns her head forward every time the behemoth of a man sends it nearly flying off her shoulders.

Around her stand four men. These men are not Japanese, which is a surprise to Daredevil. Bad intel.

Most seem Caucasian, maybe Italian or Greek. One looks Hispanic, but has a dark complexion. They question her, interrogate her, 'convince' her - under duress. Daredevil coldly surveys it, looking for other figures. Counting and calculating threats, he sees one gunman standing at either door on the bottom floor, while they occupy the top floor's office for their attacks.

This information is clear to him – he has let them beat her for the last twenty minutes as he circled the facility, counting, deciding his actions and his chances. He is thorough, not for hesitation, but for consideration.

Six men before him; one is a brute, two are assault rifle-bearing gunmen, three are business-seeming men of an olive-skinned descent. One of those three is the one interrogating her now, but he seems to take his directives from the slightly taller man to his right. They all are packing heat. Both of the riflemen look confident, and one of those on the top floor looks comfortable with their arms - the director to the questioner's right. The rest seem nervous of the awkward weight packed on them.

"Two threats," Daredevil whispers to himself. He looks at the questioner who does not know how to use his weapon, and the Brute who looks hungry for more: the rest of them are predictable.

A predictable enemy is a dead enemy, DD muses. Just one who hasn't figured it out yet.

He plays to his strengths. He leaps to shock them, leaps to drama. After all, how many places have real skylights these days?

The glass shatters around him as he sails down and lands in a three-point stance, one knee to the ground, one leg behind him and one hand to support. Looking straight up from his prone stance, his right hand snaps forward with his energy baton forming instantly from his gloved hand and flying free with careful ease. It slams into the Adam's Apple of the brute, before returning to its caster's hand with haste.

He stands in an overly dramatic flourish of a flip and twist, leg sliding across the floor to draw an imaginary line before taking a formal stance. Dramatic action poses are bad for their morale, and apparently good for his. The director raises a gun to her head, and DD appears underwhelmed. "Who the shock are you!" he screams insensibly.

"Daredevil," he offers just so very politely, amusement filling his voice.

They collectively hesitate, and glance amongst each other. He is a legend, if only an urban legend. The story told to little criminals to make sure they do not make mistakes. He sees that shudder in them briefly.

"I don't give a shock who you are, slag! One flinch and she's dead!" the director screams. The riflemen murmur their awareness below. The director pushes aside the dusky-skinned questioner to better aim his weapon at the prisoner's skull. Unfortunately for him, he is one of those not counted as a threat but instead counted as predictable. They need her more than they want to admit. Daredevil seems like he can see it in their eyes, hear it in their breaths and smell it in their sweat.

He does not pause. The cable lances out from his club, its tip extending into three sharp tripod legs. Its the grappling hook, and it rushes around the victim's hand in half a second. Daredevil pulls him viciously with a tug of the hand, reeling him in. They begin firing from below, easily heard and seen. They do it right on cue, too, as Daredevil pulls his victim in and leaps backwards, grasping the rail of the catwalk in one hand.

As he comes into range, Daredevil makes a backwards flip to place his foot firmly in the victim's sternum mid-flip. With leverage placed, DD keeps going in his flip while the momentum carries his victim flying over the rail, DD simply landing with his feet dangling, the rail gripped to keep him from falling.

The victim, who did not find the rail, flies down to the floor below. The wet smack of his body crunching against concrete below echoes. The two gunmen below open fire on Daredevil as he hangs above them. Daredevil swears at himself, for getting too excited and leaving himself exposed, like an idiot.

Daredevil flips back up with casual ease and hurls the baton mid-air. He lands again as the stick slams into the lower leg of the fleeing questioner, who cries when the impact makes him drop. Rifle fire soars all about the masked man, but he does not seem to mind its scorching heat. The baton returns to hand and the black-clad vigilante notices the brute has recovered. No words, no zings offered, as the captured CEO stares with wide eyes and a prayer on her face.

The brute swaggers ferociously towards DD, fury disfiguring his face, and Daredevil is smiling widely beneath his mask, the creases made clear. The brute's fist comes rushing for DD as his baton rises to catch the brute's arm. They keep away from the rail as automated laser-fire below electrifies the air behind them. Neither seems to want to chance too close a walk. Really, no man would who is thinking right.

Daredevil steps back under a swing, and then reverse springs. The brute comes rushing at him, and ducks as blaster fire races around them. Daredevil stands there, unhesitating and unmoving, the baton in hand pulsing threateningly. "You scared?" He asks the brute in a low, daring rumble. Daredevil, for instance, is not a man who is thinking right.

Sneering, the brute grimly offers his particular brand of poetic response, "Only that I might break my knuckles on your face, retread!"

Daredevil sees out of the corner of his eye the untouched questioner who is pointing his weapon valiantly at our masked avenger, while trying not to focus on the pain in his own leg. He aims, eye closed, focusing, hand shaking ... and Daredevil lets him. He rushes into the brute, and lets him catch him when he sees the questioner prepare to fire.

When DD sees him close his eyes, which is the clear sign of an untrained firer about to fire, he pulls in his shoulders that had spread out when the brute caught him, and uses his now smaller figure to drop, hands catching the brute's tightened forearms to yank the brute down as he falls. The brute gets the bullet aimed for DD, stumbling back in pain and horror. He goes far enough back that he slams into the rail behind then and topples over it, blaster-fire welcoming his falling body before it firmly meets the concrete below.

The masked man stands again, and taking his club, he turns slowly and threateningly to look at the nervous gunman. He walks up to the gunman, who stumbles back for a moment in fear. It takes the gunman a long moment to gain the confidence to reaffirm his aim and surprisingly, readies it to fire. "Go ahead," DD tells him, and the gunman prepares to.

Until Daredevil continues, warning him, "But when I stood up, I threw a monofilament wire into your barrel. It's jammed. You fire, the backfire will kill you," he explains calmly. The gunman sweats, checking and double-checking his weapon as the masked man steps forward. Its several moments spent with sweat beading his forehead. In the end, he pulls the trigger, eyes clenching in fear and crying out as it fires.

A disappointed Daredevil groans viciously as he is shot in the arm. Hurting but unhesitating, he whips forward and yanks the weapon from the gunman with his reliable hand.

The questioner and newly made gunman seems shocked he didn't die more than that Daredevil lived, "You said--" he begins. DD pistol-whips him across the face with his good arm, sending the questioner sprawling out below him. Daredevil turns the gun around and shoots him in the stomach.

"I lied." Daredevil drops the weapon, and kneels down beside him.

Daredevil pull the questioner's lighter out of his pocket, even as the gunmen racing up the steps make their loud approach clear. Daredevil decides he has a few seconds. He approaches the weaponless inquisitor, playing with the lighter. "What's your name?" he asks him, curiously.

The questioner hesitates. The energy baton becomes a staff and DD viciously slaps him across the face with it, making him cry out again. He kneels down beside the prone victim, not saying another thing. The inquisitor is sweating. Daredevil lights his shirt on fire. Unsurprisingly, he now begins to answer, amidst screams. The tip of the staff becomes sharp. Daredevil slams it through his thigh and removes it. The victim screams in his pain.

"--Alec de Luca!" He cries, desperately, trying to paw at his chest but screaming when he touches the fire and burns his hands. He begins to smolder as he wails.

"Who do you work for, Alec?" Daredevil asks calmly. He hesitates, and Daredevil realizes as they crash that last step - the guards are here.

Daredevil hooks him in the side with the staff, and uses its leverage to launch his burning, flying, screaming body at the stairwell as the riflemen enter. Launched off the top step, Alec hits the two who rush up the stairwell and sends them all toppling, scrambling from the fiery twit.

Daredevil flips and leaps, catching a pipe above to swing himself closer, and with another flip meet them all. Reactively they fire, and strike him in the leg and in the stomach. DD lands on them just before one fires and strike him in the chest, sending him soaring back. DD hits the floor with a groan.

They begin to stand, staring, and move towards the masked man's limp body. They shove him to see if he responds - and at their first touch, Daredevil jumps back up, and rages. "Possum!" one manages to yell as DD pounds his friend viciously, angrily, slamming fist and baton across faces and guts, breaking ribs, breaking jaws, letting blood coat his gloved fists.

They fall under the assault, backs striking metal, tears and teeth shed from their faces, skin breaking under his strength. Its solid minutes of fury unleashed upon them before DD stands back up finally and removes himself from their battered bodies. Blood splattered messily over his costume, he breathes slowly, catching his sanity.

He stands back, staring at the injured gunmen. He grasps the questioner by his neck, his shirt having burnt onto his chest and flame snuffed during the conflict. He lifts him skyward before turning and hurling him against the floor again.

"It's your turn to be asked questions, Big Man. Who do you work for? And don't tell me he'll kill you. Because, trust me ... I won't. Don't test which one's worse. Just look at your lively friends." Daredevil advances on him again, staff forming once more from his glove. Alec's eyes widen and he holds up a hand, defensively.

"Herrera! Jeffrey Herrera!" There is silence, DD seeming taken aback. It lasts just a second or two, and then he slams baton once more across his face, sending him into a pained sleep. The masked man's head turns to stare at the current president of JR Biotech.

"What's your name?"

"L-- Lena Russell--" she manages, her eyes wide with terror. She just watched all this and looks unsettled. Daredevil appears understanding.

"We're leaving, Lena." It is a simple matter to cut her free, throw her over his shoulder and leap skyward, swinging them back to Arc's lovely apartment.

The Baxter Building, HQ of Stark-Fujikawa

A man known by the respective title of Hikaru-san sits in his office and drinks a simple tea as he reviews a touch-screen that unfolds in front of him, scrolling over data with a sharp eye clear on all the things crucial to his involvement. "Takiwara-kun," the esteemed man offers as the doorway opens to a humbled man stepping forward, a guard assisting him on either side of him, forbibly.

Takiwara seems unable to find his own feet, dragged along the carpet, wincing at each ounce of weight he presses on his ruined legs. Released to kneel, he cries out shortly in the pain. Hikaru does not seem pleased by the wincing. "Takiwara-kun. Bow to me," Hikaru orders with his lips tight and eyes set, his voice not changing in octave but clear in its tone and briskness. He is displeased, no matter how pleasant he seems.

"Hikaru-dono," Takiwara offers, head bowed, on his hands and knees, tears flowing from his eyes in the pain, using the most subservient of honorifics he can think of in a desperate desire to please his master. Hikaru inclines his head, and sips his tea. Takiwara kneels backward, wincing, his tears visible now to his Lord, the scarring of two letters - DD - clear upon his face clear for the first time. Hikaru sits impassively.

"Tell me, Charles-kun. This one man, who managed to infiltrate our defenses, defeat seventeen of our trained employees and one specialized security troop - your bodyguard - on his way from his furthermost undetected entry to the point of our R&D lab in your facility. This 'demon', this 'Oni' you speak of, who made his mark on your face ... you do not know him? His name?" He sips at his tea, again, and makes an invitational gesture with his hand.

A guard steps forward and lifts a ceremonial sword from Hikaru's wall, an award he received - for his excellency in bringing their family esteem in this empire, according to its engraving. The guard turns, and kneels before Takiwara, placing the katana at his knees.

Hikaru makes no comment towards its arrival, except to dismiss the guard with a similar gesture, as Takiwara's silence proves his ignorance. "Yes, you told us that he said 'we would figure it out'. And I have. That emblem, this action - there was once a legend among the Heroic Age. His name was Daredevil. He was a hero of the destitute, the poor. A selfless warrior, trained in our family's ways. The Way. Bushido. And yet he finds conflict with us. This disturbs me."

Takiwara cannot take his eyes off the sword. Hikaru sips gently at his tea. "But he is dead. This man is a lie. He troubles us; he has made an enemy of us. This will be his death. Yet, he has proven us weak and this ... too ... cannot be forgiven. Takiwara-kun. I wished you to know two things: The name of the man that shamed you. Also, to know that we will avenge you." These words Takiwara knows the meaning of. You cannot properly avenge the living.

Hikaru takes one last sip of his tea, as Takiwara's tear-stricken eyes fix to the hilt of the blade laid before him. Tentatively he grips it in his shaking hands. Hikaru kindly speaks to him, "You may take this chance to absolve your shame, as well, and honor your ancestors. I myself find honor in being witness to your courage." Hikaru smiles softly, now.

apartment high-rise, Tormen Towers, eighty-fourth floor

Lena screams the entire trip back, energy-cable carrying them quickly to their destination. It is with a 'thud' that he lets her go the very moment they meet the balcony. She falls through the doorway with the force of the landing and rolls, arms and legs still bound and mouth newly taped shut. She was loud, after all. "Intercepted the package," he informs Arcadia dismissively and slides off the rail, standing now with arms crossed, eyes surveying the scene behind their glow.

"What did you DO to her?" Arc accuses him as she tosses a book angrily. He lifts it up, and glance at its title as if the secret to her anger is in it. It is titled 'Good Omens'. Somehow, he looks strangely wistful. A book - in this day and age? He glances up to her, expectantly.

"I'm -- give me that, I'm reading it! I just -- threw it at -- get her untied!"

There is a long moment, once more, where wills contest. Finally, he surrenders because there's really no point. He throws the book to her and kneels down, untying Lena and removing the tape from her lips. She has stopped crying, which is a little more convenient, he thinks. He looks to her, as she struggles to her feet and brushes herself off. Daredevil explains her for the sake of Arcadia, "It wasn't SF raiders. Jeffrey Herrera. Is he Corp?" She looks to him quizzically.

"He uh ... no idea. Sounds ... I'll look into -- are you okay?" She does her best to answer him, but she's frazzled, excited and she may actually shows a considerable concern for the injured and broken woman at his feet.

"What did they want from you?" And Daredevil finds himself suddenly cautious, worried that she just might be approaching the same inquisition from a new angle. He finds himself deeply concerned, but not for the CEO's welfare.

"I'm fine, miss, I'm ... Lena Russell, I'm the head of JR Biotech..."

"I know who you are," Arc calmly responds, cleaning Lena's blood with a soft hypo-sponge. Drains blood into it like a vacuum.

Arc cannot help but smile, so calmly, so easily. "I'm Arcadia Davers, a humble helper. We are with Re-Activ-8. A... group dedicated to the freedom of individual dreams. Daredevil, our agent, was sent to save you from a dark fate. It's really going to be okay, now. We'll protect you, and help you get your feet back on the ground..."

He sees it spinning in her eyes. Lena is not rescued. Lena is captured. She just has a much prettier looking leash. Worry mounts in him.

"Thanks. I ... we just work on cures and prosthetics, alternative ways of having a comfortable life, I don't ... I don't understand why they'd want to do this, why they ... killed so many of my friends, why ..." Her fingers tighten and clench, eyes closed. For a moment, Daredevil could have been certain he heard a low rumble. Arc comforts her, taking both of Lena's hands in her own.

"That's what we want to find out. So we can stop them," he hears Arc say, and his world changes in those simple words.

Paranoia or Epiphany, he wonders.

He steps back from the building, as their voices mingle. Suddenly discomforted in ways he cannot begin to describe, he walks away, unaware of her calling out and simply steps over the rail off of her balcony, to the gusts of wind whipping about him as an answer to her any question. The darkness welcomes him and he becomes it.

There is bitterness in the air, and he may have brought it with him.

across town, undisclosed warehouse

Three men lay on the ground, being brutalized.

This night fills with the sound of skin being torn from injury.. The sound of boot leather across the face of the man splayed across the ground. "What do you mean, 'Daredevil stopped you'? What do you mean that -- did Santa Claus' sleigh wrap your Maglev around a tree? Did the Easter Bunny egg your car? Did Thor swing his hammer and usher in the crazy?" His voice, rich Spanish accent, is saturated with anger as he viciously kicks the man in the stomach again, folding him around the boot. Blood spills from a closed wound being opened again.

"He ... he said he was Daredevil! ... and he ... wouldn't stop coming, like ... like bullets meant nothing ... straight from Hel, I swear it, sir, I swear--" Again he's answered with a kick, spitting up blood across the cement. Alec de Luca looks like his discomfort is not at an end yet.

"You find this leech, you bring him to me. Knock that 'Hel' and 'Valhalla' trash, slag. You bring him to me and we have words. I'm squashin' this lunatic 'fore he scares more of you girls. I hear you say his name, whisper it, think it too loud, you're recycle." The boot makes one more breath-crushing contact before he tries to walk away. Then, a slight pause, while one of the other two man kisses feverishly at his Spanish lord's passing boots.

"Mr. Herrera, please--" The pleading voice of the boot-kissing servant displeases Mr. Herrera, and he kicks that boot viciously into the man's teeth, eliciting cries of pain. The boss seems not to mind the strangled cry.

"No. I'm becoming merciful in my old age. Alec, I let you live - not your fault, sweet boy," he smiles to him, then his face returns to his sneer. His eyes snap to a corner, to a brutish figure admiring the display. "You recycle Angelo and Sam here. Then you go find our masked man. We handling this today."

Angelo cries and his eyes widen. "But, I -- I promise, it won't happen--"

"--again? Oh, I know it won't," Herrera offers with a dark smile, as he walks away, taking a napkin from another's breast pocket, to wipe at his bloodied shoe.

Angelo looks terrified, and begins to cry, quietly. "Mr. Herrera... please..." he begs, for his life.

The cleaning of the blood stops suddenly. Herrera steps forward, and kicks the bloodied boot back into Angelo's mouth that fills with far more blood now.

"No. You don't get to say my name. Name to you, its The Kingpin."

END


	2. Chapter 2

On the Night of Long Knives, I woke up. They killed the heroes, the ones who tried to reintroduce us to magic, hope, independence – to Justice. I saw it on the news and I KNEW. Someone had to show them that it takes more than gunfire to kill an idea. I've allowed my hate to grow in me and bloom. I have no life, no home, no ties and no love. Its time to show them all that a man with nothing – is a Man Without Fear.

I am

DAREDEVIL.

DAREDAREVIL 2099 - EYES WIDE OPEN, part 2: Back to Basics

written by Bowie Sessions by

"Our every action is a battle cry against imperialism, and a battle hymn for the people's unity against the great enemy of mankind: the United States of America. Wherever death may surprise us, let it be welcome, provided that this, our battle cry, may have reached some receptive ear, that another hand may be extended to wield our weapons, and that other men be ready to intone our funeral dirge with the staccato singing of the machine guns and new battle cries of war and victory."

– Che Gueverra

It is a dark, stale night. The wind hardly even blows. Fury addles Daredevil's mind, and he looks down from these high apartments while perching among the gleaming steel towers, seeing only shadows below. The precipice is so high up here that no one can even see the suffering below. Daredevil watches in disgust, rage making his fingers tense along the concrete beneath his fingers. "I have been distracted from my dream and from my cause," he tells the air.

"These people need my help and I can't give it from up here. That bitch Arcadia corrupts my dreams. Re-Activ-8's nose is far from clean. No. That innocence is gone." He remember only hours ago, seeing Arcadia speak to Lena Russell, CEO of JR BioTech, to get from her the very information that some mysterious unaffiliated men were sent to beat out of her.

He wonders if they saved her only to kill her. His head snaps and looks to the side, as if asking someone. "Did I take her from the wolves and throw her to the lions? Am I in a nest of vipers? Am I up to playing the mongoose? What the hell IS a mongoose, anyway? So long since I've even seen nature…" He looks lost, deep in thought.

"Is it a kind of goose?" Daredevil follows up, whispering to the sky.

He tries to clear his head, his body acting so that his mind can rest. He seek purpose in the pain awaiting me. Daredevil stands and leaps from his perch. Really, its more of a fall. His arms extend and he drops, the wind rushing past him. Daredevil's head spins as he plummets, the oxygen so much thinner up so high, where steel meets cloud. Through his insulated suit, he can still feel the cold air bite against him, tearing into his nerves. He welcomes it and it awakens him.

past the Thirteenth Street Line

"THOR has forsaken you! Having chained his brother inside the Earth, the noble and deceived Loki, Thor and his Gods have returned to the skies above, never to return! The times of this era's pain, this day's suffering, are conditions of STASIS - of CALCIFICATION! Jormunggand is no visible thing; the Serpent of Midgard encroaches us all, circles the Earth, as it is the spirit of liberation and of dissent. In Loki's children do we infest this Earth, readying it for the cycle to be turned again."

High upon a pedestal is a man dressed in his new styles of teutonic tribute, neo-Scandinavian complemented with the a small helm engraved into it the upper jaw of a terrible beast.

"The cycle MUST be turned, if we are to save this Damned world!"

Snarling, Daredevil can't help but agree with him. The Fenrir speaks with the fervor of a preacher, but he is tainted. No truer could he be that he says he's a child of Loki. The preacher calls on rebellion, on the tumbling of some dark government, while peddling to the masses a drug given to him by those same powers above. Now his speech tells of the Rainbow Bridge and of how the world's eyes are sealed from the truth.

"You must broaden your vision -- they tell you this is SIN, this is CRIME -- but this is LIBERATION! They fabricate such ancient spiritual journey with CyberNet, trick us with holograms -- they COMPUTE our dreams! Fight this -- it is only our minds we must overcome!" The masses are responsive. His tongue is silvered. Daredevil can't help but sneer as people begin to take from his men's hands, his gang scatters through the crowd. Daredevil watches while a teenaged girl takes a small capsule and he knows anger. It is pure and clears his mind.

"Things seem so much simpler when righteous," Daredevil whispers quietly and counts them. There are twelve, with at least fifty innocents nodding along to them, so easily swaying to this man with his smooth voice. Daredevil's mask tightens around his scowl, but a smile soon serenely replaces it. He surrenders to action.

He leaps free the wall at the far end of the courtyard, his feet finding hard stone below him. It's a firm kick-off that sends Daredevil skyward again, a forward flip which hurls him over the heads of seven listeners. Again he lands and again he leaps, this time a reverse hand-spring to toss him into a tall aerial that ends standing upright and balanced on the rail cornering this former bus-stop that the Preacher uses as a pedestal from which he speaks. This preacher begins stumbling back quickly. No one's responded just yet, but that's why they call it the Element of Surprise.

"I'm sure Loki will protect his loyal followers, his Grandchildren, the so Blessed of Fenris," Daredevil offers sarcastically, as the Preacher runs away. He sends an energy cable flying straight for the Fenrir's back which spears through his stomach from behind before it extends its three grappling hook legs. It catches him that way, making him scream as it tears at his organs within. Daredevil reels him back in like a caught fish and the energy dissipates, leaving the wound to seep as Daredevil catches him by his wrist. DD pulls the arm back, twists it around and shoves the Fenrir chest first into the rail. Collapsing against it, the Preacher screams when Daredevil torques his arm as a threat to remove it from the socket. Really, it seems kind of like his hobby lately.

"Huh, that's weird. I kinda expected smiting." At that, Daredevil places a foot in the small of the Preacher's back and cranks his arm up and over. Apparently it wasn't just threatening a second ago. The arm circles the entirety of its orbit and pops free from its socket like a stubborn bottle cap. The Preacher hasn't stopped screaming yet. He twists and slams his face into the concrete below him twice and then finally stops struggling.

Daredevil speaks to no one listening, observing that the Preacher is at least very unconscious, if not dead from a brain hemorrhage. Doubtful, he figures.

"Good man, stay down."

Standing up, he looks around for the first time. He sees the gaggle of Fenris quickly approaching and speaks loudly to the crowd before the Preacher's compatriots reach him. "Go home, you idiots. Their 'sight' has not saved them. It will only ruin you. They lie for profit. Go read a book. Get your own damn opinions. Read The Bible or Danielle Steel. Go nuts." The people are retreating in obvious fear while the gaudily dressed crowd of Fenris' believers rush the masked hero.

The energy baton extends into a staff and Daredevil spins it with a quick, fanciful and unnecessary flourish. Behind his mask, his lips crease into a broad smile.

"Afternoon, gents."

They try to talk with their fists, like savages, which seems fine to Daredevil. It is with action that he replies. He does not bother to put too much attention in it - he operates mostly on instinct, letting his mind wander even as he hears their pained cries.

"What is Arc doing right now? What could she be doing?" he asks out loud, a sweeping kick toppling the first several.

"When she gets that information – who's it for? I wonder if I'll need to beat it out of her," he ponders quietly.

"I wonder if I would like to." Blood splatters across the black of his uniform as a hard right cross meets the face of a Fenrir and he grip the thug's shoulders to leap-frog over him and send his own feet crashing into the chests of those rushing up from behind..

He wonders where she even got the uniform he's hiding within right now. Questions race that he blindly never thought to ask. "How did she know to send me – hell, how did she ever find me...?"

He catches a Fenrir by his arm and uses their body to make himself stable as he over-extends to hurl a kick high into a Fenrir's adam's apple and then yanks at the thug's arm to pull them towards him. With a kick, this sends him flying up over the thug in a mid-air cartwheel. Landing on their opposite side, Daredevil drops to a knee and pulls the Fenrir down with him, sending them crashing into cement and standing again carelessly. Looking around, Daredevil dusts himself off.

"Am I paranoid? Is she pure?" He asks again, looking askew.

"No, no. We can't kill her, rushing to judgment… maybe Lena is innocently rescued… maybe we really found our way there by some rumor… but you're right … it doesn't mean I'm wrong."

Daredevil wipes up their blood from his uniform that is thankfully stain-free, with one of their ratty t-shirts that he took the liberty to remove. Taking their drugs, which he balled up in a cloth he tore from one's head and loosely dangles it in his other hand. Sirens break the din of silence he had created with their broken bodies.

Dropping the drugs to the ground, he opens a lighter Daredevil'd lifted from one of the criminals. Flicking its archaic flint, he lights the shirt on fire. Cracking open the lighter, he releases its fill of gas all along the cloth below. The flames rise and he knows it will burn well. And maybe the idiots laying next to it will too, if they're not lucky.

Daredevil extends his hand from which forms the small baton of light and erupts its cable which snares a ledge high above and pulls him into the air with it, swinging him quickly skyward. The sirens call to him – he's got a job to do.

The Baxter Building, HQ of Stark-Fujikawa

This is the office of Hikaru Takeshi. He admires his own small note sketched upon his desk. The letters 'DD' joined and scribbled on his notepad. The same sigil which was found carved into his employee's forehead only last night. Looking to the far end of the room, this powerful man can not help but smile ruefully, eliciting no response from the shadowy figure. "This is clearly the man," he suggests, quietly and bitterly, his face a grizzled expression of regimented frustration. It bleeds through his eyes, through the wrinkling of his cheeks… but his face does not twitch, lips do not forgive.

"This is a man who has taken the flag and face of a man known to our histories: a blind samurai, a gaijin samurai. It… would seem he continues a legacy. And, it would be appear he has become … disapproving of us in some manner. However, we are righteous and we are wronged; which would mean that he has begun a blood feud in the shaming of our family. This must be resolved."

His long rhetoric is finally nodded to by the figure in the thick, resilient cowl resting around his neck. Long hair hangs forward in his face from beneath the hood, his head bowed and hands crossed before him subserviently as he listens to Hikaru's spiteful words.

Hikaru looks to this figure quietly and thoughtfully before he speaks at length once more. "He has embarrassed us. Shamed us in such a way as can not be repaid for with our blood alone. We will avenge Takiwara. Eagle, my most able of prospects for this task, I would care to see this man suffer so he would face us with honor. It is the respect I will extend him for his predecessor. I would like it if he were forced to be honorable enough to speak to me as a man. I would like it if I could be allowed the chance to make reparations to Mr. Takiwara's family."

The long-haired figure washed in shadow bows, and pulls forward his cowl so his eyes meet Hikaru's. His hair is tucked into the concealing headpiece, and eyes open beneath the slits in the tight hood, one eye brown and one an inverted dot of white on an orb of black. He manages to smile. "I believe I know just what must be done, Hikaru-sama."

"I know nothing of your plans, and this will be the truth forever. I speak only of wishes and desires, not plans. Not intentions."

"The Project named Eagle works for your interests alone, Hikaru-sama," the smiling figure named Eagle assures. His smile never fades.

past the Thirteenth Street Line

This place used to be a fairground. It was a mecca of entertainment and industry. There were musical concerts, social events, and boardroom excursions to the sunny skies above. As this city grew upon its shoulders time and again, it sank what was formed below them under their freshest skylines … what was once splendor and greatness became desperate and irrelevant. There is now a gaggle of underprivileged gathered and staring at the destruction before them, as seven Public Eye officers have arrived to brutalize a small group of dissidents whose voices differed from the tripe of corporate head-lines.

Now again a man calls to a crowd. Before, the speaker sold lies in drugs. This crowd now has their conviction strengthened with each blow against the corruption of the Corporations – and simultaneously weakened by the impassability of their imposed order. The man preaching has little effect, unlike the last; the Eye speaks, and his words fall on the deaf ears of poor that won't ever afford their service.

It didn't take long for me to follow those sirens or discover where they going. I just follow the sirens to the sudden silence. I found them already bloodying a broken-apart gazebo with the faces of citizens they have long since labeled as refuse.

One of the Public Eye hoverbikes suddenly makes itself known to the gathering as it sails viciously through the wreckage loosely called a gazebo and rams most of the Public Eye in it, flying high enough to avoid the crumpled victims below. It carries them through the structure, slamming them violently into the opposite wall, crushing their ribs and breaking limbs as it goes. They're vainly struggling to their feet and their weapons when I walk up the gazebo's half-broken steps, onto the ruined floor.

And so I speak, anger quivering in my voice. "I believe I can define the word 'hate'. It is the emotion one feels when they or those for whom they care are abused. Hate is never empty or invalid – it is always pure and true. Hate forms in men for those whom have wronged them or their loved ones."

I am shot at. It is almost dismissively that I whip out my baton, which somehow draws the energy from the blaster into itself like a vacuum. Again they fire and again the energy coalesces into the weapon in my grip as if fed by it. I bear down on them in my rage.

"I hate you all. You abuse innocent men for your pleasure without culpability. Well, I'm here to tell you – you're all culpable before these same men you abuse. A simple law of nature: We. Have. Nothing. To. Lose." One of the men stands up, and rushes me with a shock-stick in hand. I dismiss it with my baton, and punch him in the face before I grab him by his neck and slam him into the wall, hitting him into it until the wall gives way and I let him go. He doesn't get back up.

The crowd below has never paid more rapt attention. "THESE MEN are not the law! Our Constitution, the one for which your first ancestors lived and died – it was not in failing. Written in those pages is the very right to dissent – no, the implication _that one must_. We have the right to choose our own government. These aren't Gods, not implacable beings of power – these are some schmucks who signed up for cheap abusive power to the first dime that bought them, these are some schmucks I just BEAT THE CRAP OUT OF in front of you. They fell down. They're fallible. Every person who employs them is fallible. To the last man, these bastards _will fall_ if you just _fight back_. You can only take so much from a man until there is nothing left to take – then they are free again. Your life is empty because of them! This isn't a curse – this is _liberation_! FIGHT BACK!"

There is fervent nodding as a man dressed all in black stands at the precipice of this derelict structure looking into the fields to the gathered wave of protestors that listen with dedication, nodding and whispering complicity.

"There is a sickness, and we must cure it. This life is only theirs if you let them take it. Do not go gently into that good night! Rage, rage, against the dying of the light!" I think I lose them with that poetry excerpt, but the point is made, and they throw their fists up defiantly into the air. I like how that feels to see.

But their cheer masks something in the noise. I see it in the distance. Specks form against the sunset, first … but then it becomes very clear. There is a wing of men riding through the air, uniformly astride mounts that would've once resembled motorcycles. I can hear strains of _Ride of the Valkyries _sing through my mind and a dark voice laughs inside of me. The Public Eye has returned in force. I count at the very least thirty of them. Apparently they do not take well to 'Officer Down'.

"Everyone needs to leave. Bring this fight to them, but on your terms, in both public and shadow. But not today.

"Rage," I bid them last.

The staff forms into a cord with its head a legged tripod. I swing it back and cast it forward.

I. Do. Not. Run.

On the Net-stream, private chatroom of Re-Activ-8

The screen reads clearly/Entering Channel – iRace TV-8/ as Arcadia sails through cyberspace under her avatar of a sleek, silver-clad surfer-girl. She arrives into what appears to be a small park, with benches all surrounding a miniature lake filled with ducks. Thrown into the pixellated waters are small breadcrumbs of the Users' make. The tension in the bandwidth is palpable – as it always is. Terrorism is launched across thousands of fronts with constant secret meetings in arenas that are wordplay or a jumble of their nomenclature.

"Thank you for joining us, Hierophant. Thank you for deeming us worthy of your interest," speaks a man with his lower body that of a spider and covered in illuminated trails of binary along all ten of his limbs.

She bites back any disagreeable feelings, looking upon the alternately abstract or precise digital avatars of her co-conspirators. Most of them don't know each others names; many of the inner circle even keep their identities secret. The faith in each other must be absolute.

"I had difficulty with some of my update content, Protograde," she answers sharply, kicking up her gleaming silver surfboard, catching it quickly and standing beside it at a lean.

"All present now. Begin the minutes."

past the Thirteenth Street Line

The count is thirty-five, it turns out. That's thirty-five Public Eye forces astride their vehicles. I heard the cry, "Move on the LT, flank his sides." I saw the grizzled face of a Public Eye officer in his sparkling-clean uniform leading the pack – clearly this 'LT', or 'Lieutenant'. I launch myself into the air and cast the cable. It catches against his vehicle's airfoil, giving me traction and him descent. I use the leverage and the baton's recoiling to fling myself higher off the now-spinning vehicle, navigation compromised by my momentum, the cable still attached to its air-foil. Its spinning too fast to pull out. I hear already, "Lt. Puglisi – fix trajectory!" over his radio as I pass.

When gravity pulls me back down, a foot extends to slam into a passing PE's helmet and sends him driving wildly while I pull roughly on my baton only to release its grip on Puglisi's bike. Too late. Already the once-hooked vehicle sails into this one while I leap free. I hear the cry – "Puglisi, VEER! VEER!" before the Lieutenant named Puglisi, who obviously wasn't able to comply, goes careening headfirst into his coworker. Their fall doesn't look pleasant, either.

I don't say anything. No clever retorts. No cute affectations or rants. Performing a beautiful double-axle in mid-air, I release the cord again to send it catching onto another free bike, as blasts are fired in every direction through the air after me. I swing through the mass of them as best I can, friendly fire sent back and forth to them with frustrated and pained cries under their own assaults. I even lead two into crashing together as I perform my aerial bounds.

I am caught, though. For thirty five of them, I cripple half a dozen of their bikes. A blast wings me in the shoulder just as I cling onto another bike and causes me to drop through the air to the end of my cable, hanging on by a prayer and striving to convince my shoulder to overcome the pain. I think I saw this in Blade Runner.

Then there's another voice. A flying car screeches up to the fracas of police action, bearing in it a massive black suit-clad man with massive gauntlets and armored pads along his body, creating a juxtaposition of formalwear and battle. His ponytail is pulled back tight, and the police barely become aware of him before he stands up with a bizarrely barreled weapon affixed to the bottom of his arm. It looks like an old-fashioned gatling gun is suspended from his forearm. Crap.

He opens fire… and it slices through the Officers, who scream in agony, riddling their newly-minted corpses with lead, just as it gives crippling damage to the hoverbikes they ride. I can only hang there watching until the bike I am suspended from no longer has a rider and it starts rapidly losing altitude. I don't have time to act before I come crashing into the ground below. It hurts considerably and I feel broken, slack loosening on my cable.

Struggling to move, I look up. I wish I hadn't. "Oh, $#."

The bike plummets into me. This hurts more. But I don't feel it for very long.

I black out and am dimly aware of being lifted. The first awareness I have is looking into his eyes, while he suspends me by my skull like I was a basketball. He's easily six foot eight. Easily three hundred pounds and none of it fat. I am lifted as if I weigh nothing. The prospect that I might be out of my league occurs to me.

"The name's Graveyard. You made my bosses very—"

I don't give him the time to finish. Never let bad-guys orate to you. If they get to the end, they _will _kill you. I grab his huge wrist and pull myself upward by it, slamming a foot into his crotch and the other catching his chest as I kind of run up him. I kick myself free from him, his pain releasing my head just in time to flip backwards free of him and land with a flourish.

I spin kick him in his side, as all around me I see crashed remains of Public Eye forces, I see bodies and vehicle wreckage through the fairground. Most are either barely moving or dead. I obviously was out long enough for him to finish every last one of them off. Wrecks are still smoking – so minutes at most. He eliminated every last one of them. I should thank him. But strangely I feel more compelled to disgust.

"SHOCKING IDIOT! Now I just 'splain to them, you didn't go quietly – I hadda kill you—"

He seems not dazed at all. I duck a swing of his fist and leap into the air, striking my foot into his face. Don't even budge him. "I got the impression you already were planning that," I mention.

"Yeh. Just, now, I ain't gotta lie 'bout it," he smiles and grasps my foot as I come in for another kick and just stops me dead. I hang there, leaping on one foot and trying to get free. Well, I get that wish – when I'm thrown backwards at an unbelievable velocity with a simple toss of his hand. Explains how he carried me so easily, super-strength. I crash instantly into the same gazebo from which I spoke my agenda to have its ruins crumble around me.

Groaning, I work to free myself only to see his imposing figure casting deep shadows over me.

"This won't stop me. This won't stop the revolution. You're wasting your time and energy." He lifts me easily from the rubble and I see clearly. He's wearing a Body Chassis. I'm screwed. He looks to me with amusement before he throws me into the nearest building, right through the window and into the coffee shop level of the abandoned apartment rise. It takes a few minutes to find my feet when he comes in, ignoring my own blood dripping to the ground below.

"They don't care what you think—" I try to begin, and groggily dodge his fist as its sent into a support wall of this crumbling place. It surrenders to his strength, the ceiling above wobbling. I leap behind a desk, trying to think up a plan. It is not coming to me.

"They just—" Doesn't even give me a chance. He lifts a desk up and slams it into me twice, reducing it to splinters as I am crumbled to the ground. His fist destroys the support wall just for emphasis as I hack up my own blood, gurgling beneath my mask.

"They pay you into slavish obedience…" I argue desperately as he walks up to me with his grin, business suit in tatters from destruction and our one-sided fight. The ceiling starts to give.

All I remember after that is his massive fist coming for my skull.

"They pay well," I hear as it comes.

private channel, iRace TV-8

"…which brings us to you, Hierophant," the pleasant voice of Isotopia suggests, implying it her turn to talk.

"My Agent… he … is off the grid. Not answering comms. Data black-out. It is still unclear if we've been compromised."

There is much silence around the still and pixellated pond. Many eyes study Hierophant carefully, while many mutter frustrations beneath their breaths and more curse silently to themselves.

"What of his last project? What were the finds of his most recent acquisition?"

At this, Hierophant smiles pleasantly to them and bows her head in submission. "It has failed. The Agent killed her to prevent her from saying more – she was compromised at the extraction point. I'm sorry."

There is a forgiving nod that surrounds the circle. "We don't approve of his actions."

"Oh, Thor, neither do I!" she protests, trying so hard not to smile.

sometime later, past the Thirteenth Street Line

There is a shift in the debris of the building's foundation, pebbles trickle down their hill of destruction like the smallest hints of avalanche, appropriately enough. A massive slab of warped metal is hurled free from its top a moment later and skids down the side of the decimation, taking chunks of wall and furniture with it as it topples. A single black hand emerges from the newly-made pit and pulls me free from my tomb. I drag myself out inch by inch until my arm is far enough that the baton forms in my right hand. Its tip turned into the hook and releases its long cable. Blindly it catches something and reels me in. I am torn out of the debris, over rock and over land. My body is limply and painfully dragged across what remains of the ground.

Coming to a stop, the baton forms together again and dissipates in a quiet hum, leaving me to lay there. I groan for several moments and just lay there. I soak up the pain quietly and finally rise, kneeling and then standing. Graveyard is long gone, left me for dead. I know I have been in more pain before, but I am having trouble remembering when. Jesus.

I look to the skyline above me and once more the baton forms to my hand. I grip my side to test my injuries… and decide against swinging, letting the baton dissipate. I hobble over to the unconscious body of Lt. Puglisi and give his hoverbike a shot. It revs, engine roars, and begins to float. As I straddle it with a wince, I think that maybe I should get my own ride. I don't know, the DareDunebuggy… DareDirtbike… something.

I know just where I'm going. I need information. And as much as it pains me, there's one person with that knowledge - Re-Activ-8, more particularly its contact to me. I plot the course and start driving. I'm going to go see Arcadia. And then we're going to have a few words.

apartment high-rise, Tormen Towers, eighty-fourth floor

Arcadia, the true face of Hierophant, signs off of the Cybernet and places the helmet quietly on its stand on her desk before relaxing in her lush leather chair. She breathes quietly and stressfully, before she stands and turns, sipping at a glass of water prepared and placed on the corner of her desk.

"Where's Lena?" I ask and she is shocked at my appearance. She drops the glass and seems more aware that it doesn't shatter than she is of my catching it. I watch her ruefully, my eyes glowing with their apparent crimson hellfire.

She stutters, struggling to find her confidence to speak before managing her angry protest. "She's … in a protected home, she's being watched—"

My eyes darken in my reply, "Imprisoned."

"Guarded!" she rebukes me fiercely, pointing at me in accusation.

"From what?" I contest, voice snapping, not moving an inch.

She slaps me as her response. My face turns to exaggerate the strike. I'm surprised by her action and I gather my conviction.

Fists tighten and relax furiously, rage coursing through my blood. My vision would turn red, if it could. I'd like to kill her, right now and dark desires in my mind scream for me to. That sensation has filled me several times lately. As always, sin exists not in the appetite but how you wet it.

"Don't ever strike me again, Arcadia. My service here is for your aid, not your employ. I have … had … a really bad night and I need to know. I need to know that I am not your fool. I need to know that you aren't the crazy bitch I think you are."

Again I find her hand races to me, but this time I anticipate it. This time I catch it before it lands, and pull her to me, viciously kneeing her in the stomach and hurling her against the wall. She groans at the impact and I step forward.

She once more cries in her defense, "I'm just trying to protect her, you slag! You helped her, I helped her – I'm protecting her! She's safe!"

"Tell me where. I'll ask her about it."

She lunges for me. With a kick to her stomach, she goes flying back to the wall and I pursue it with a quick jab to her face. She buckles under the impact, collapsing into the drywall behind her. "Shock you, you analog retread! I gave you this! This second chance! I made you a man again! I made you! And this is it? You treat me like this? My trust? My faith in _you_?" I punch her in the face again. It feels good.

She slaps me across the face again. We're full of repetition. I deserve it. Then she pries up the mask half-way before I slap her hand away and bloody her lip. I don't really _answer_ her rhetoric so much as assault her to prove my point. I'm punched in the face again. Good. She's getting some guts. I knee her in the stomach once more, making her gasp. She launches forward and kisses me. I find myself returning it. Once more, she's returned to the wall. This time knocks less breath out of her.

…

I awaken hours later, moving through the darkness of this room into the shower. The water baptizes me. Water is religiously seen to wash away all manners of sin, and I pray for it now.

In the shadows of this room I slowly pull on my black uniform and walk to the balcony. I step onto it, and finish pulling the mask on over my face, red eyes beginning their glow as I stare into the night.

The darkness takes me. I stare into the abyss which is swallowed by the neon lights of the city. Am I going mad? Applied to tasks for which I believe… only to find doubt in my mind? Preaching of words of action and purpose… only to see my faithful run like rabbits? Am I damned to see demons everywhere, and to see angels nowhere? Is there purity, justice and nobility still? Or do I truly rage against the night?

…I remember the first time. There were angels.

There will be again.

END


End file.
